


we thought we lost you (welcome back)

by cyndakip



Series: the price of perfection [5]
Category: Blaseball (Video Game)
Genre: Autistic Dot, Canada Moist Talkers (Blaseball Team), Gen, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Major Character Undeath, Season 11
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-19
Updated: 2021-01-19
Packaged: 2021-03-18 07:28:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,914
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28863315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cyndakip/pseuds/cyndakip
Summary: Dot notices. Workman is still Workman, but they're different, too. And how could they not be, after going up in flames and then sleeping for years in the hall, dreaming, drifting in and out of memories of who they once were, and then being called back just to kill a god? Of course they're different.Dot is different from who they once were, too. And that's not a bad thing, not for them, not entirely, but for Workman...(Workman Gloom is back from the dead, free from playing blaseball, and PolkaDot Patterson's new roommate. And everything's going to be fine now, right?)
Relationships: Workman Gloom & PolkaDot Patterson
Series: the price of perfection [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1969006
Comments: 6
Kudos: 10
Collections: Canada Moist Talkers Fanfiction





	we thought we lost you (welcome back)

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! I've been trying to inflict my Workman And Dot Become Roommates After S10 And Live Together With Beasley And Nothing Bad Ever Happens To Any Of Them Ever Again, Hopefully agenda on the world, but it took me forever to get this fic done. Here it is now, though! As usual, I recommend reading the other fics in the series first (particularly [over and over and then over again](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27440107), in this case), but it's not absolutely necessary. The main thing you need to know for context is that Workman's death was a result of being beaned in extra innings of a 19-inning game that Dot pitched against Jaylen, and Dot still feels somewhat responsible for what happened. Also, Dot's the one who's been looking after Beasley since his feedback to the MTs!
> 
> I had to figure out how to fit this into the timeline, since I also want to write a Dot and York fic that takes place beforehand. The announcement of the Hall Stars being Released and the Pods falling to their new teams happened at the same time, but I can't have both those stories happen at the same time, because that's Too Much Happening! So I decided to slow down the return of the Released players, and hopefully it makes sense.
> 
> Title is from the song [Adventures In Solitude](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RIdRl9bbRJQ) by The New Pornographers.

It’s been a while since the world has felt so quiet.

This quiet, though, is at least a peaceful one, a harmless one, a less intense one. Not the quiet of being closed off from the whole world, but the quiet of the whole world simply taking a pause from the chaos. Dot does their best to enjoy it from their spot on the couch with Beasley, trying to focus on petting him. This peace _should_ last when the season starts tomorrow; they’ve been promised an era of peace and prosperity, after all. So why does the universe feel as if it’s holding its breath, waiting for something?

Beasley is certainly waiting, but that’s nothing new. He’s only grown more restless since seeing Workman rise with the Hall Stars and then disappear again. Dot understands his frustration; the start of a new season feels so final. What if this is the last chance, and nothing happens? 

_Something_ has happened, though, an almost imperceptible shift somewhere in the city, and Dot can feel it. A change, a promise that maybe, just maybe... 

Beasley feels it too, in his own way, suddenly snapping to alertness. His ears shoot up, and he tears out of the room, barking and howling.

“Beasley?” Hardly daring to hope, Dot follows to find him scratching at the door, yipping with excitement. They swing it open and watch as he launches himself at the figure on the other side of the door, knocking them over and covering their face in licks.

“Oof!” is the noise from the hallway, followed by helpless laughter. “Ha ha, that tickles -- yes, Beasley, I missed you too! I missed you _so much_! Who's a good boy?”

Beasley barks joyfully.

“Yes, it's you! You're a good boy!”

Dot hangs back, both because they don’t want to intrude on this reunion and because they can hardly believe that Workman Gloom is currently lying on the floor outside their apartment. Though Dot had seen them help defeat the Shelled One, knew they were not exactly dead anymore, knew that the released players had started showing up, seeing Workman in person, _alive_ , is... well. If there are words for it, Dot certainly can't find any. 

Workman manages to get up, eventually, Beasley prancing excitedly around their legs. Dot faces them, feeling awkward. What do you say to someone who you watched turn to ash when you were helpless to prevent it, and everyone blamed you anyway, and you blamed _yourself_ anyway, and you cared about them though you tried not to, and you let yourself spiral, and right when you thought you were finally getting over it you ended up trapped in a giant peanut shell, and when you got out you had more problems to deal with, and right when you thought you were getting over _those_ you see them rise from the dead and now they're at your apartment?

Dot ends up going with “Uh, welcome back?” for lack of a better idea. They're afraid to say it any more definitively than that, as if Workman might disappear if they dare to be confident that this is real.

“It's good to be back,” Workman says -- _Workman says_ , because they're here, they're back, they're alive and standing in Dot’s doorway as if all of this is no big deal. “Thanks for taking care of Beasley for me. It means more than I can say.”

“I think he mostly took care of me,” Dot admits. They look down at him, his tail whipping through the air faster than they've ever seen, and feel a stab of pain. Workman is here to take Beasley back, of course, not to pay some sort of friendly visit to Dot, and this is the end of their time together. Dot will be alone once again. It’s a small price to pay for Workman's return, so why should it bother them so much?

“I hate to ask, but --”

Dot cuts them off. “I understand. Beasley is yours, and he should be with you. I can gather up his belongings if you give me a minute.”

Beasley whimpers, looking back and forth between Dot and Workman.

“No!” Workman says quickly. “That's not why I’m here. I know the two of you have had some time to bond, and I'm not just going to drag him away. We can work all that out later.”

Beasley resumes his tail wagging at that, and goes right back to demanding scritches, which Workman is more than happy to provide as they continue talking. 

“I wouldn’t even have anywhere to take him, not yet. Turns out that when you've been legally dead for years, you don’t have an apartment to go back to anymore. So... I don't want to intrude, but I was wondering if I could stay here for a while? Just until we sort everything out. But I can find somewhere else if it's too much trouble, of course. I know you're a private person.”

“I was,” Dot admits, focusing on the last part because the rest is. A Lot. “Maybe less so now, thanks in part to Beasley. And York.” 

“York Silk?”

“Oh. I… I suppose you've missed a lot. York ended up on the Moist Talkers after his... experience with the Pods, and stayed with me for a while before moving in with Jesús and CV -- er, Commissioner Vapor, he… he was...”

“My replacement? I know. Got to hear it from the newer arrivals in the hall.”

“Ah. Good.” 

... _Good?_ Really? Workman heard the news about their replacement because they _died_ , they died because of -- and all you can think of to say is “good”? 

Workman doesn't seem to mind, though that might be just because they're focused less on the conversation and more on trying to catch up on several years worth of Beasley petting. This is proving to be rather difficult, as the dog is far too excited to stay still. 

“I've been pretty out of it since that fight with the peanut, though. Wasn't really much of anywhere. Kind of felt like my spirit was... drifting, for a while. Guess a lot of time has gone by since then? Honestly, the first thing I did when I wound up back in Halifax was find out where Beasley was, and now that I've done that, I can start worrying about everything else.” 

“Not too much time, only the offseason. Games start tomorrow.” 

“Ah,” says Workman, and says nothing else. 

“But you can stay!” Dot says quickly, realizing they had neglected to mention that before. “Of course you can stay. For as long as you need to. I have an extra bedroom.” Dot had thought it quite unnecessary when they first moved in, but as it tends to be difficult to find a decent, non-waterlogged place to live in Halifax, they saw no point in being picky about it; an apartment is an apartment, after all, and they didn't expect to be there long regardless. They certainly didn't expect a spare room to come in handy again so soon, and they can't imagine that Workman really _wants_ to stay, but if it's just temporary and for Beasley’s sake, well, they understand. 

“Thank you,” Workman says, as Beasley barks happily. “You don't have to worry about me cluttering it up, at least. I’m a bit lacking in worldly possessions right now.”

“I believe the Thieves still have some of your belongings, and they would be more than happy for the opportunity to return them.”

“They’ll make me steal ‘em back. Wouldn't have it any other way.” Workman grins, though it fades after just a moment. “I'll talk to them tomorrow. It's been a long day. Or a long hour, at least. Don't remember much before that.” They seem suddenly tired, and Beasley nudges them in concern, whimpering. “No, I'm fine, Beas, really. Just need some sleep.”

“Are you sure you’re truly back?” Dot asks, somewhat alarmed. “It took you a long time to find your way here at all, and now --”

“I'm _fine_. Honestly. Can't feel the Monitor or anyone else in my head anymore, and I'm breathing, and I'm thinking clearly for the first time in a long time. All signs of being not dead. I won't get called back to the Hall, I promise.”

_You won't call them back, will you?_ Dot asks the Monitor, who's still a faint presence in their own head. 

As usual, there's no response. The Monitor is nothing if not reliably oblivious. Well, they trust Workman far more than they trust the Monitor, anyway.

“Okay. The room is down the hall to the right.” They hesitate. “Good night?”

“Good night,” Workman agrees, looking almost asleep already. They shuffle down the hall and into the room as if still dreaming, Beasley following behind. The door closes, leaving Dot alone in the hallway.

...Alone. Hardly the best word to apply to this situation; Dot is less alone than they’ve ever been. Aloneness is something they’ve become strangely unaccustomed to, lately, especially after a whole season of having Beasley around, and then York spending some time here as well. This is the opposite of being alone, really. Beasley is still here, and Workman is back. 

Beasley is still here. Workman is back. Workman is _here_. 

Dot reminds themselves of this over and over in the unrelenting quiet of their own room, an empty Beasley-shaped space at the foot of the bed. They're all here. They're all safe. Yes, it's quiet, and no one else is in the room, and the walls suddenly seem very close, but you're here, and they're here too, they’re just not right _here_ , but you're not in the shell, you're here, you're okay. Workman is okay, too, and as long as the silence continues you know it's true because Beasley would be barking otherwise, and anyway you'd feel it if something went wrong, just as you felt it when they came back. 

Everything is okay. Everything is okay. Everything is okay. 

Dot repeats this over and over and over in their head until they almost believe it, and even then it's a long time before they fall asleep. 

* * *

Dot wakes to small clattering noises and the knowledge that everything is still okay, in a way. They follow the sound of the former down the hall into the kitchen, where they try to make sense of what they see. Workman, looking more rested, is carrying plates of food to the table, Beasley still glued to their heels.

“You made breakfast? You didn't have to do that.”

“I think it's the least I can do if I'm going to be taking up space in your apartment for a while.” They set the plates down. 

“You do not owe me anything, honestly.”

What Dot really means is _you_ **_died_** _, you died and we all mourned you and now you're back and making breakfast in my apartment as if this is a perfectly normal situation, as if you need to repay me for something, as if I am not the one who owes you, as if you don't realize that you being here at all, being_ **_alive_** _, is more than enough_. But they do not say this, because how does one broach the subject of their newly-acquired undead roommate’s death without killing the mood at the breakfast table?

Workman shrugs. “Well, you have a game to play today, and I don't, so it's not as if I have much else to do.” 

“You are entirely... free, then?”

“Yeah, that’s what they promised me. I don't ever need to set foot on a blaseball field again.” Their voice sounds a little strained.

“That's... good?”

“Yeah. Yeah, it is.” They take a deep breath and seem surprised at the sensation of it, as if they've forgotten how it feels to have lungs. “I can still _play_ blaseball for fun and all that, go hit some balls whenever. But I'm not part of the league. Won’t miss all the --” They wave a hand vaguely, as if that can encompass all the strangeness that blaseball has become “-- but I can't say I don't already miss playing for a team, being part of it all, you know? And it feels wrong, because you're all still trapped in this, and I get to walk away from it. I _have_ to walk away from it.”

Dot does know. What would they do, if they didn't have to play anymore? They can't even imagine it.

“Please do not feel bad for us. Not when you're only free because you --” _no, don't say it, Dot_ “-- and everything is different now, we were promised peace and prosperity. We might be safe again.” 

“You trust the promises of gods?” Workman asks, skillfully avoiding Dot’s unfinished comment.

“...No,” Dot admits. “But I would prefer to be optimistic, to go out and pitch today and believe that it will be fine.”

“Right, speaking of that, better have some breakfast first.” Workman slides a plate toward them. It's nothing fancy, just pancakes with bacon and fruit, but Dot certainly appreciates it.

So does Beasley, who whines, looking up with pleading eyes. Dot tosses him a piece of bacon, which he gulps down eagerly.

“Been spoiling him, have you?” Workman says knowingly.

“He's a good boy.” 

“Sure is,” they agree, slipping him a piece too, and for a moment, this feels almost normal. 

* * *

Workman doesn't have to go to the game, of course, and neither does Beasley, but they do anyway, the three of them setting out together. They don't talk much, but it's a pleasant enough silence. Beasley bounds around joyfully to the point of nearly tripping Workman on occasion, which they don't seem to mind at all. Workman gazes around Halifax as if it's unfamiliar, and, well, it _has_ changed, new buildings having gone up, others now sunken beneath the waves, new walkways bridging the deeper parts of the city. Dot knows it goes beyond that, though, knows how it feels to come back to a world that seems different in ways that are impossible to explain. 

There are some things Dot _can_ explain, at least, and they do so. The Talkers have swapped divisions, so they’ll be playing the Thieves a bit more often, which Beasley has been very excited about. The Lovers are in their subleague now, too, which should make it an interesting start to the season; it's been years since the Talkers have played them. Yosh Carpenter is a good pitcher, and Dot always appreciates a challenge.

However, they find it difficult to concentrate on that as they arrive at Gleek Arena with Workman and Beasley and watch the reunion, the team welcoming Workman back with hugs and tears and laughter -- and then doing the same to Kiki, who shows up a couple minutes later. The two of them eventually have to head up to the stands rather than staying in the dugout, but they're _here_.

Noticeably not here, though, is Mooney. She's not pitching today, of course, but she normally does show up for other games, and her absence is concerning. Does she resent it, that others have come back when her wife has not? Is she looking for a way to bring her back, too? At the very least, the unfamiliar new sun in the sky must be a constant, painful reminder of what the old sun took from her when it went.

Dot has to admit it feels strange, to stand on the mound under the warmth of _any_ sun, with nothing else in the sky to worry about. They’d become so used to pitching under shadows and blood-red clouds and thick static warping the air (and then they’d become used to not pitching at all, alone in the darkness with even the memory of the sun fading -- but no, don’t think of that, it’s over and gone, further gone than the old weather, and it’s not coming back). And it _is_ different, this sun, a little less bright, a little softer, as if it’s nothing more than a cheap imitation. Honestly, though, Dot can appreciate that. Though they welcomed the light after so long in the dark, the old sun’s brightness had always felt harder to handle since they came back. 

What they appreciate most, though, is that new or old, the forecast calls for nothing else but sun today. As they wind up to throw the first pitch of the season, Dot dares to hope that maybe, just maybe, nothing will be taken this time. 

* * *

The Talkers lose. Dot only gives up a two-run homer in the second inning, but that's enough; no runs are scored to make up for it.

“Good game,” Workman says, having made their way down from the stands. Because despite the loss, it _was_ a good game, really, a close one, an exciting one. A safe one.

And maybe that's why Dot isn't at all disappointed, or even indifferent. It's good, just to be here again. To be surrounded by the team. To hear York laugh at something that CV says and watch Kiki smiling as she signs something to Workman. To walk out of the stadium with Workman and Beasley, heading back to the apartment together. Yes, this is not perfect, not complete, but what could a win add to this happiness?

* * *

Workman leaves not long after the game, off to Charleston to collect their things and see their old teammates. They take Beasley too, after Dot insists it's okay -- he's Workman's dog first and foremost, after all, even if he's somehow become Dot’s dog too. And it _is_ okay, because they're both coming back. Beasley has a game to pitch in a few days, so they have to come back. 

They're coming back. Dot reminds themselves of this as the silence descends on their apartment for the first time in a year and the walls start to feel closer, and closer, and closer every time they blink. This solitude is brief, and safe, and you're not trapped, and you're okay. 

Dot leaves anyway, slips outside where there is fresh air and water and open skies, and doesn't bother going back. They head to the stadium once the new sun rises, spend an hour or two throwing pitches until the team shows up, and pretend they've just arrived. 

The Talkers lose again. Dot has no part in this game and, honestly, doesn’t pay much attention to it. They then spend the afternoon with York, which also means spending it with Jesús and CV -- and Budy, of course, who is uncharacteristically mopey, wondering why Beasley hasn't come to play with him as usual. 

They both come back from Charleston, eventually, Beasley bounding through the door and barking an excited greeting to Dot, Workman following with bags of things (mostly shoes, Dot suspects). Workman looks tired again, and Dot worries, but they say they're fine and go to sleep and greet Dot with another smile the next day. 

Dot still worries. Sometimes Workman seems to just... drift, almost, as if they're still not much more than a ghost, wandering from place to place because they have nothing else to do. Lost. Half-asleep. Whatever _Released_ means, it's not a perfect solution.

But it's only been a couple of days; perhaps this will fade. Workman is back, and safe, and _here_ , and that's what matters, right?

* * *

They manage to settle into a rhythm, over the next few days. They don't get in each other's way, but they don't _avoid_ each other either, they simply... exist, in the same place, and it seems to work well enough. Beasley is delighted, at least. And Workman does prove to be a good roommate; they keep things tidy without being asked, they're not loud, and they don't seem to mind that Dot tends to leave all the curtains and their bedroom door open -- or Workman doesn't comment on it, at least, and so Dot doesn’t have to say anything about how they have to do it so they don’t feel trapped in their own apartment. 

Workman goes to most Talkers games, regardless of who's pitching, banished to the stands with Kiki, though Beasley sometimes joins them up there. They sit and watch and cheer, and frown slightly from time to time, watching blaseball go on without them, unrelenting.

So Dot is not particularly surprised when after a few games have gone by, Workman finally turns to them as they're walking back from the stadium and asks “Can I still take you up on that offer?”

They don't need even a moment to think about what it is Workman means. They remember it so clearly, the arc of the ball and the swing of the bat, just the two of them practicing under dark skies on the field, doing their best to forget the much more sinister way the skies would darken the next day. _Let's do this again sometime._ Impossibly hopeful, and yet not so impossible after all, as it turns out. 

“Of course you can. Anytime.” 

And so they find themselves in the park under the still-unfamiliar light of the new sun, though it is light nonetheless. No shadows but those cast by nearby trees, no stakes, no worries, just Dot winding up to pitch and Workman prepared to swing and Beasley prancing in excitement, ready to chase the ball. And despite all that has happened, it is still easy to find the rhythm from before, the _whoosh_ of a well-placed pitch and the _crack_ of a well-timed hit, a combination that is simple and yet beautifully complex. 

They stop, sooner or later, step back and watch together as the rest of the world falls back into place, the sun and the sky and the grass now seeming comparatively dull and flat and uninteresting. Dot can't help but think how unfair it is, that this game that has taken so much from them both is still what makes them both feel the most alive. 

* * *

The days go by. Workman says nothing about finding another place to stay, and Dot doesn't bring it up, either. Though this new arrangement still feels undeniably strange, it seems to be working so far. They go on walks with Beasley, practice in the park, sit together in companionable silence when they get home. It's a pleasant new rhythm, if a rather hesitant one. Dot has to admit that though they've always respected Workman from afar, understood them, worked well together, they were never _friends_ \-- though, until recently, Dot hadn't exactly been friends with anyone else, either, true. 

Can they even be friends, when there is so much unspoken between them still, so much they both stubbornly go along without mentioning, not wanting to upset this delicate balance? The death. The guilt. How do they go on like this? 

The world had moved on, while Dot was in the shell. The others had time to work through their grief, time to start putting that horrible season behind them, and all the while Dot slept and finally woke up to even more grief, more problems to deal with than just what had happened to Workman. It’s not that it had been better with Workman gone, of course it hadn’t, but it had been... simpler. Less complicated. There was no need to worry about what Workman thought of what had happened when the whole problem was that they were no longer around to think anything at all. How does Dot get over Workman’s death now, with Workman alive again? 

Workman _is_ alive, and doing their best to remind themself of it. They still leave every now and then, staying in Charleston after the Talkers have been playing there, or simply heading out whenever they want, no longer bound by a contract. They take Beasley, too, sometimes; he only has to pitch one in five games, after all. Once a Thief, always a Thief. Would it not be easier for the two of them to just... stay there? Fly out for Beasley's games and then head back? It would be less travelling than blaseball players usually have to do.

But they always come back, Beasley scrambling through the door with tongue lolling and tail wagging, Workman following behind with groceries or a new toy for Beasley or suspiciously acquired shoes, as if this apartment is exactly where they want to put these things. Dot certainly doesn't mind; it's not as if the place is getting cluttered despite that. 

Dot wonders if part of the leaving is simply that Workman feels guilty about intruding on Dot’s space and tries to give them some time alone. And if not that, then what? Workman staying away because they can’t stand to be around Dot after what happened? But then they wouldn’t stay at all, even for Beasley’s sake, right? They’d just… leave, take Beasley and stay gone. Even so, how can Workman be happy here? 

How can Dot say that being alone is the opposite of what they want? It's not as if they can just beg Workman to stay because they're -- Well. Not _afraid_. Not that. But whatever this feeling is, they thought they had gotten rid of it last season, and yet now they are back to longer moments of no one being around and the walls starting to close in again.

But it helps that Dot has more opportunities to not be alone, at least.

They go for lunch with McBlase, sometimes. Neither of them say much, but they enjoy it all the same; McBlase always seems to appreciate a moment of quiet away from the chaos of the courtroom or the stadium. Beans is appreciative, too; she purrs as Dot slips her scraps, the strange sensation of their many hands never seeming to bother her as she leans into their touch, winding around Dot’s legs on her many delicate paws. 

They spend time with Kiki, start actually getting to know her, which they never thought they’d be able to do. Though she’s frequently in Seattle visiting Quack, she always returns to Halifax with her usual smile and determination. She speaks of unions, of rights that they all deserve to have, of her plans to try and talk with this new boss. Still fighting hard to make a difference. It’s admirable, but Dot isn’t sure the boss will listen.

They drop in to visit York often, making sure he's settling in well with CV and Jesús -- and he does seem to be, seems more like himself every day, learning how to be a teen and remembering how to have fun. 

The others don't seem to mind Dot visiting, either. Jesús is glad to have someone else around to prevent CV from doing anything too over the top, and CV is always excited for a chance to get Dot on stream. Dot doesn't exactly understand this whole Twitch thing, but York and CV have taught them how to “dab”, and the few people in the chat seem to find it entertaining.

And it's good, all of this, the time they spend with the others, the time they spend with Workman and Beasley, but with every happy moment, there is always the undercurrent of unease. The more Dot tries to carve out this new life, the more fragile it feels, as if it will shatter or slip away from them if they so much as blink, even their many fingers never enough to hold it all together.

Do not think of that. Think of the simple truth: Workman is here. Proof that though things can go wrong, sometimes they go right again.

* * *

Not perfectly right, though. 

Dot notices. Workman is still Workman, but they're different, too. And how could they not be, after going up in flames and then sleeping for years in the hall, dreaming, drifting in and out of memories of who they once were, and then being called back just to kill a god? Of course they're different.

Dot is different from who they once were, too. And that's not a bad thing, not for them, not entirely, but for Workman...

Workman seems a little friendlier around the team, a little more outgoing. As if they feel the need to prove that they're more than fine, that being dead was no big deal. Dot gets to see that mask start to slide off once they’re home, the tiredness slipping through the cracks. Neither of them have acknowledged it, yet; they simply continue on with the sort of quiet that is comfortable, if not perfect. 

They don't talk much when they're practicing, either -- can Workman even call it practicing, now, when they have nothing to practice for? -- but that's simply because they have no need to; there is nothing they understand more. They take turns, mostly, Dot pitching to Workman while Beasley chases excitedly after the balls. He'd probably be content to leave it at that, but _he_ needs to practice, at least, so Dot usually lets him take over after a while and sits on the sidelines, bringing the balls back with a simple twitch of their fourth-dimensional fingers.

Dot and Workman had always been able to find a good rhythm when they work together, enough to make the world narrow to just the two of them, the ball and the bat, an even matchup -- and yet it is nothing compared to the perfect harmony of Workman and Beasley. Those two seem to have an instinctive understanding of each other, an unbreakable connection, as if they know each other so well that no move either of them makes could possibly be a surprise. It's never as serious with them; every now and then Beasley will go chasing after a ball or simply head over for scritches, and yet it all seems as if they never miss a beat. That's how it was for them before, for so long, and they've simply picked up where they left off. Watching from the sidelines, Dot feels out of place. A discordant note.

But then Workman looks their way and smiles, and Beasley comes bounding over to demand attention from Dot, and they think that somehow, they could belong here too. If they can just find a way to fit this all together, to make it work, to finally get over everything that happened, they might somehow learn how to be another part of the harmony. 

* * *

Something completely unimportant is what ends up setting it off, in the end.

Workman tends to leave their bat leaning against the wall by the entryway along with the balls and gloves, for convenience when they're all on their way out to the park. That doesn't make the area cluttered, since there’s never much else lying around there. Workman and Beasley are adamant about not leaving any shoes in such a vulnerable location, of course. (This stance makes Dot mildly worried about the possibility of the Glooms’ former teammates breaking into their apartment, but they figure it's not a big deal, if the Thieves are only after shoes and maybe also a nice visit.) 

Maybe Beasley had knocked it over while grabbing a ball to play with, or maybe it simply fell over on its own, but whatever the reason, Workman's bat has rolled all the way down the hall. Someone less in tune with the universe than Dot may have tripped on it, but they simply step around, not thinking much of it. 

“Sorry about that,” Workman says, rushing to pick it up. 

“Hmm? No need to apologize. It only fell.” Dot continues on their way to the living room and settles on the couch, thinking no more of it.

Workman follows, hovering in the doorway. “Sorry you have to put up with stuff like this, I mean. I know I've been taking up a lot of your space lately.”

_Sorry_ , they're always saying now, both of them, trading apologies about things that don't even matter. Maybe it's the Canadian influence, and maybe it's that they want to go on believing that if they say it enough about things like this, it just might make up for the big things.

_Sorry I left my bat lying around._

_Sorry I leave all the curtains open._

_Sorry I'm taking up your space._

_Sorry you have to stay here for your dog’s sake._

_Sorry everyone blamed you for my death._

_Sorry I let you die._

They have to get to those last two eventually, don't they?

“There is more than enough space here, I think.” What Dot means is _there is too much space here for just me, and yet when I'm alone it feels like not enough, but I can't tell you that, I can't make you stay if you don't want to, and why would you want to? Maybe this won't work after all, maybe we can never move past what happened and you can never stop feeling like you should leave me alone and I can never stop feeling like you should hate me, and_ \--

Workman isn't saying anything. Why aren’t they saying anything? They're looking at Dot as if they haven't decided if they want to leave or stay or take Beasley and get out of Dot’s life forever, and so Dot has to say something.

“Do… do you really think you are unwelcome here in any way? Why do you keep talking as if you owe me something, when I am the one who can never repay you for… for…”

Workman sighs, in a sort of simultaneously relieved-apprehensive _are we finally doing this_ way, and settles down in the chair across from them. “Dot? You're not still blaming yourself for what happened, are you?”

“I... I have been trying not to. I almost succeeded, before. But with you here again... I look at you and am reminded that I failed you, at the very least. Even if there was nothing I could do differently, that means I was not strong enough to do anything differently.”

“You didn't throw that pitch. You didn't set me on fire. Even Jaylen couldn't have done anything differently, and I don't blame her, so why should I blame you? Why should you blame yourself? If you let it happen, so did everyone else. None of us won that game either, or lost it any faster. I didn't hit a home run when it would have mattered. None of us could save me, not even me.” 

“How -- how can you just say that? How can you be so calm about it?”

“Practice,” Workman admits. “You don't feel anything as strongly when you're in the Hall. Didn't have much energy to be mad at anyone, and I don't see the point in starting now. Not many people get to have a second life. I don't want to spend mine hating the people who missed me, no matter what might have happened before.”

“I… I can understand that, I guess. The team and I had some... disagreements, that season, but after I came back, none of us wanted to be angry anymore. Not at each other.”

“What about at yourself?” 

“...I am getting past that too, I think. Mostly. I am not the same self that I was.”

“Yeah, I know how that feels.”

And they do. If anyone knows, it's them.

“It will take time to find your new self. Or rediscover your old self. But I think we can get there. Both of us.” Dot looks up hopefully.

Workman nods. “I hope so. And, really, my old self didn't blame your old self, either. Blaseball doesn’t let us give up even if we want to, and I would understand if you didn’t want to. We go out there and we play our best because it’s what we do. Or -- well, I guess it’s not what I do anymore.”

This is what frustrates Workman the most, Dot knows. That their freedom is freedom for them alone. That what they want is not to stop playing blaseball, but for blaseball to be safe again. For all these horrors to be undone. Peace and prosperity seems like an empty promise, when the sky is still full of black holes and the hall is still full of dead players.

“You miss it.” It’s not a question. 

“You would too.”

And Dot would. One of the few things they remember from _before_ is that they loved blaseball, though they weren't particularly good at it. And they love it still, though differently, love the way the world narrows to just them and the ball and the batter, one-two-three. They know it's what they were made to do, and they hate that they were, and maybe they were also made to love it, but they love it anyway, because what else can they do?

“I would.”

“You understand how it feels, to play not just because you have to but because you love it. And now I only love it, and there's no _have to_ anymore. Not like -- you remember the day I got feedbacked?”

Dot remembers everything since the book has been opened. Every little detail. Hardly a fair price to pay for being unable to remember most of what happened before. There is so much they wish they could remember, and so much they would rather forget.

“Yes,” is all they say.

“First thing I did was hit that home run off Beasley. Couldn't even stand to look at him up there, but I still swung as hard as I could because it's what I do, and I was going to keep doing it even if I had to be on another team, because how could I stop? You don't stop. You keep playing.”

“You always did,” Dot says quietly, almost without thinking.

“I did,” Workman agrees. “Kept playing even when I got hit and knew what was coming, because I had to, and I _wanted_ to. Didn't want to go down without a fight. I don't remember much about that final home run, but I remember not wanting to stop.”

“You… you don't remember?” 

“No. I dreamt about it in the Hall sometimes, but it was mostly just fire and smoke and pain. Everyone who arrived after tried to tell me about it. Said it was a legend.”

Every. Little. Detail. 

Dot remembers.

“It was.” They look away, but still feel Workman looking at them.

“I'm sorry. I know how hard it was for you.”

“You -- why are you the one apologizing? You have nothing to be sorry for. It's not your fault you --” _don't say it, Dot._

“Died? It's okay, you can say it. I died. I died and I'm alive again. That's what happened. It's okay.”

“What about that is _okay?_ ” Their voice rises a little on the last word.

“...Not much,” Workman admits after a moment. “But you don't have to dance around it. I can handle it. I've been handling it.” 

“Because you have to,” Dot says, echoing Workman's earlier words.

“Yeah. They brought me back so I could live, so I have to remember how to live. For me, for Beasley, for my teams, and especially for everyone who didn't get this chance. I'm handling it.”

“Just... know this is not something you have to handle alone, all right? I learned that lesson myself while you were…”

“Dead?” 

“Yes. That.” Dot clears their throat awkwardly. “We are here for you. _I_ am here for you. You don't have to pretend that everything is fine if it isn't. I may not know what to say, but I will listen.”

Workman nods, after a moment. “I know. Thank you. I’ll… I’ll try to take you up on that sometime. And I'm here for you too, you know.”

Dot does know it, somehow, knows that they really mean it, and that Workman knows Dot means it too. “I appreciate that. I am simply glad you are here at all.”

“I'm pretty glad to be here too.”

Dot knows they just mean _here,_ out of the Hall, but...

“I meant it when I said you can stay as long as you need. As long as you _want_. Honestly. It is... nice, to have someone around. Not inconvenient at all.”

“Well, I know Beasley would like it if we stayed a while longer, and who am I to argue with that?” Workman smiles, tentatively, and Dot echoes it after a moment. 

“Sometimes I feel as if Beasley is the only one of us who has any sense at all.”

“You're just now figuring that out, huh? I've known it for years.”

“I have been figuring out many things, lately. I did not expect that to be one of them.” 

“The world's pretty full of surprises.”

“It certainly is.”

They sit in silence for a moment, a silence that is not awkward but comfortable, knowing they will talk more about it all sometime. Not now, but soon. They’ll get there. Maybe it won’t be easy, but they’ll get there. In the meantime, though...

“Would you like to take me up on my other offer now, at least?”

“Of course I would. Anytime.”

And so they both get up, and stretch, and Workman grabs their bat from where it had been reinstated to its spot against the wall. Dot calls to Beasley, who comes bounding over from the other room with tail wagging, already carrying a blaseball in his mouth. He leads them outside together, the three of them under the light of a sun that is still new and unfamiliar, but shining nonetheless. 

**Author's Note:**

> I've been working on a lot of Dot and Workman content, so you can expect more soon! Hope you liked this. Thanks for reading <3


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